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Thursday, January 24, 2013

In the wake of my ego-deflating facial experience last week, I have been walking around with the giant albatross of aging draped over my shoulders like a cloak of hatred. It's not been fun.

On Tuesday, I was in Manhattan for a client meeting and then was to meet Rayne for dinner. I was early. I walked toward his office in Hedgefundlandia (Midtown East) and lo and behold, what was before me but that beacon of overpriced fashion, Bloomingdale's. I went in to buy mascara, because somehow after my poop-scooping-jeans-ripping experience, I had misplaced it. I figured it would turn up if I bought some more, and then I'd have extra!

I successfully navigated the throngs of gay men hawking new scents (and one who commented on how beautiful my skin was, and did I need any products to enhance it? You are a bad liar, sir.) and purchased my favorite black mascara, Hypnose by Lancome.

Rayne still was not ready. There was nothing left to do but go up to the women's floors.

I think you know where this is going.

I stopped at DKNY and perused the sales racks. (I only buy clothing on sale. Didn't you know? That's why I dress so badly.) There were a few dresses left over from the holiday season, and I had an idea. One of my best friends from college is getting married in LA in February, and clearly, the ten dresses in my closet would not do for such a momentous occasion.

I tried on a few that made me look like a stuffed sausage, but then there was one... a tomato-red A-line dress that fit me to a T(after sucking in my baby tummy). After donning my DKNY corsetsuit of armor body shaper, it would look perfect. It was on MEGA SALE. 79 PERCENT OFF.

Here it is:

A-line dress from DKNY.

I continued on my way, browsing the ridiculously expensive boutiques. Who can afford to dress like this? The only people buying full-price items were foreigners.

Maybe I should return this dress, I thought to myself in a classic case of buyer's remorse.

Deb is a freelance writer and mom. She lives in New York with her husband, toddler son and a sweet but neurotic corgi. She blogs regularly at Urban Moo Cow, a place for thoughtful analysis of modern parenting ~ with a side of humor.

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

I went alone; no one was around or able to come with me. Rayne stayed home with Henry as it was frigidly cold this morning.

Regardless, it felt great.

Highlights included:

"26 Names," a song written by Tony-winning composer Jason Robert Brown for the Sandy Hook victims and sung by actress Montego Glover (Broadway credits include Memphis, The Color Purple, Dreamgirls). She sang the victims' names one by one in a beautiful melody that brought fresh tears to eyes that I thought were done crying over those poor babes and their teachers. I really like the post-Newtown sentiment of making a point to remember the names of those killed. So important yet so rare.

Deb is a freelance writer and mom. She lives in New York with her husband, toddler son and a sweet but neurotic corgi. She blogs regularly at Urban Moo Cow, a place for thoughtful analysis of modern parenting ~ with a side of humor.

But clogged pores and dry cheeks are one thing; losing elasticity in your skin is quite another. It has nothing to do with oatmeal hands and everything to do with aging.

The extra weight, the slight paunch of my belly, the thinning of my increasingly gray hair, the deepening laugh lines and crows feet, the yellowing teeth... they all combine to make me despise reflective surfaces.

Henry will never know me as a young woman, the way I knew my own mother. Thank goodness for small miracles, I suppose. I'd like to believe he will benefit from having a mom who has come into her own in a way the disastrous tangle of youthful arrogance and hopeless self-loathing -- aka, my 25-year-old self -- had not yet done.

I have an idea. Could I look and feel (physically) like I did when I was 25 yet benefit from the almost 15 years of experience I've garnered since then?

Pretty please with a cherry on top?

No?

Okay, then. I guess I will start using toner and glycolic acid exfoliating pads and all that jazz. Maybe some more sit-ups, too. Yeah, that should do it.

___________

I had to ditch my terrible commenting system, but I didn't want to lose the comments, so here they are:

Deb is a freelance writer and mom. She lives in New York with her husband, toddler son and a sweet but neurotic corgi. She blogs regularly at Urban Moo Cow, a place for thoughtful analysis of modern parenting ~ with a side of humor.

Thursday, January 17, 2013

Yesterday morning was our Italian class at Centro Raccontami in the Flatiron District. Everyone was so well dressed last time that I put on a little mascara to spruce myself up a bit.

To get to class requires a 15-minutes walk plus two subways -- seven sets of stairs in all -- and it's a hell of a lot easier to strap Henry into the carrier and stash him inside my special Ergo Baby Papoose coat than to carry the stroller. The problem is he's getting heavy. Everyone raves about baby-wearing, but this is toddler-wearing, and I have neither the shoulders nor the upper body strength to glide effortlessly along with 20 pounds strapped to my chest.

Once bundled in, his little round head is the only thing sticking out of my enormous poofy coat. It's so cute, but to me he's like a little Voldemort. Remember in the first Harry Potter movie where Professor Quirrell carries Voldemort in his turban? Yeah, like that.

On our way, I had to take Hudson to doggy daycare because the cleaning lady was coming, and my poor, neurotic pup is afraid of the cleaning lady, the vacuum, any and all cleaning products as well as the closets and cabinets in which those products are housed. (While I realize these are all incredibly first-word problems -- I mean, did I really say "doggy daycare" and "cleaning lady" in the same sentence? -- they are, in fact, my problems.)

So I went outside in the drizzle holding Henry/Voldemort, my big heavy diaper bag, an umbrella and Hudson on a leash. Hudson made a beeline for the curb -- which I should be happy about, because I trained my dog to do his business on the curb instead of in the middle of the sidewalk -- to do a huge doggie dump in a gigantic puddle. Oh, Hudson.

A bus was stopped at the corner, and the driver watched from his perch with a mixture of incredulity and amusement as I tried to figure out how to bend down while not dropping anything on the wet ground.

Finally, I squatted slowly with one foot on the curb and one in the street.

Then I heard it: CCCRRRRPPPPPP.

My jeans. They had ripped down my inner left thigh, and not even on the seam.

But the poop was in the bag!

I laughed a loud, crazy non-laugh and looked at my watch. If I went upstairs to change I would be late for class. But I couldn't very well sit cross-legged on the floor for an hour in a room full of well dressed Italian women with a gaping hole in my crotch. No amount of mascara was going to make up for that.

Fine, I'd change. But somehow, on the way to the garbage pail in our dirty cement "courtyard," Hudson's shit fell out of the bag and onto the ground again. Then he stepped in it. I bent down again, feeling the tear grow to reveal even more of my gelatinous thigh. I definitely wasn't going back upstairs with Hudson's feet covered in his own shit.

Forget it, I thought. I'll just have to try to explain.

As I dropped Hudson off and walked to the subway, I rehearsed my story in Italian. Frankly, however, my Italian is too rusty these days for: "I ripped my jeans in the crotch while reaching into a puddle to pick up dog shit and then decided that I'd rather flash my thong at all of you than go all the way upstairs and track said shit into my apartment."

Sigh.

Waiting on the subway platform with me was an altogether androgynous Pat whose skinny pants featured one black leg and the other a sort of knock-off Burberry plaid. Why on earth...? Goddamn hipsters, I grumbled. I hate Brooklyn; I hate hipsters.

On the train there were not one but two twenty-somethings with full-grown handlebar mustaches. I'm going to go out on a limb, here, and say that handlebar mustaches need to jump the damn shark already. I can't stomach another purposely messy, waifish, Carhartt-wearing hipster who is inexplicably smug over a possum-like growth on his face. IT WENT OUT OF STYLE FOR A REASON, DOUCHEBAG.

And while we're on the topic, all of Brooklyn, comb your collective hair. I mean, I am sleep-deprived and covered in milk. What's your excuse?

We finally arrived at 14th Street and 6th Avenue, and miracle of miracles, we were a little early. I had a brilliant idea -- I'd go to the nearest clothing store and buy a pair of pants or leggings.

And what was there to greet me when I exited the station? None other than the hipster mecca, Urban Outfitters.

Now that's a universal smack-down if I ever heard one.

I scanned the streets desperately to no avail -- there was nothing else that would work. At this point my options were:
1. Flash Italian moms with fat crotch;
2. Traipse around looking for a better store in the rain with Henry; or
3. Get my just deserts* and find something, anything, at UO.

The store was empty. I approached a salesgirl -- and I do not say girl lightly -- and asked where I could find leggings.

"Union Square," I repeated, processing this information. That was three avenues away. Wasn't going to happen.

"Yeah," she continued. "Do you know where that is?"

I stared at her blankly. She thought I was a tourist. Because obviously no self-respecting New Yorker would go into Urban Outfitters at 10 on a Wednesday morning, greasy and disheveled, obviously too old and too large to be wearing UO fashions, with a silent little Voldemort peeking out of her coat.

"Yes," person who has not even been alive as long as I've lived in New York, "I know where it is. I'll just go downstairs and see what you have."

I went down yet another set of stairs, walked past the "Hipster Jokes" book (truth) and easily found a pair of black leggings.

"Can I wear these out if they fit?" I asked the dressing room girl.

"No, you'll have to go upstairs and pay for them first."

"Can you make an exception? I'm kind of carrying a heavy load here." I gestured to Voldemort and smiled.

"No, sorry," she drawled.

In the dressing room, I kicked off my Mom Clogs and stripped off my jeans with Henry, much to his delight, still in the carrier. I put on the leggings. They were fine. I took off the leggings. I put my jeans and Mom Clogs back on. I went upstairs and paid. I went back downstairs and took off my jeans and Mom Clogs. I put the leggings back on. They looked hot with the Mom Clogs. HOT.

By the time I reached Centro Raccontami, which is on the second floor of a rickety walk-up building, I was simultaneously sweating profusely and shivering.

I can't say Henry loved class. He just wants to examine things indefinitely and is not used to giving toys back so quickly. But then the big Italian Frog Puppet came out, and he giggled and laughed, and hugged and kissed it.

Deb is a freelance writer and mom. She lives in New York with her husband, toddler son and a sweet but neurotic corgi. She blogs regularly at Urban Moo Cow, a place for thoughtful analysis of modern parenting ~ with a side of humor.

Deb is a freelance writer and mom. She lives in New York with her husband, toddler son and a sweet but neurotic corgi. She blogs regularly at Urban Moo Cow, a place for thoughtful analysis of modern parenting ~ with a side of humor.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

I received Apple/Strawberry Nibbly Fingers, "gently baked whole grain oat finger bars," as a gift. They didn't seem too bad but I always check the ingredients to see what kind of processed numnum I might be about to feed my child.

First ingredient: organic whole grain oats. One gram of sugar and 7% daily value of protein per serving. Not bad. I mean, it doesn't have the 60% daily value of calcium and 20% daily value of potassium that my full pint of Stonyfield Farm Frozen Yogurt has, but not every meal can be as wholesome as that. Am I right?

But wait. (And here's the kicker.) Each Nibbly Finger, which is not even the size of a pen, has THREE SERVINGS:

Must we play this game even with kiddy food? C'mon, Ella's Dad -- I thought you Brits were above such silly games.

Deb is a freelance writer and mom. She lives in New York with her husband, toddler son and a sweet but neurotic corgi. She blogs regularly at Urban Moo Cow, a place for thoughtful analysis of modern parenting ~ with a side of humor.

The class was well done. We sang the alphabet and counted and played Eccolo! the Italian version of Peek-a-boo!

But it was also a little stressful. My Italian was rusty. And as with any new class, Henry spent most of it clinging to me for dear life. He doesn't even know the alphabet in English, let alone Italian.

Plus, Italians, well, they do things differently. Every time Henry put something in his mouth, the teacher told him to take it out. Contrast that with Music Together, a wholly American class with a separate "wet box" for all the toys that end up in children's mouths.

The instructor wore a form-fitting black knit sheath dress and black stockings to teach a class that mainly involved sitting on the floor and hugging children with a big frog puppet. I looked at my schlumpy Gap jeans and makeup-less face in the window's reflection and was like, for the seventy-thousandth time, God, I need to lose weight and start dressing better. Good thing we took our shoes off at the door so she didn't see my Mom Clogs (which I now wear every day, in case you were wondering).

Anyway, I signed up for the class. I know that if I don't speak Italian to Henry all the time, it won't matter, because he won't learn more than a few words or phrases. But I want to try.

***

Here's the part of the story that deserves the "Are You Kidding" label.

After class I slipped my Mom Clogs back on and bundled Henry up in my super awesome Ergo Baby Papoose Coat that I bought on clearance. I have the warmer winter version, and you can wear the baby on your chest or back. Here's what it looks like. See the little head sticking out? So cute! >>

On my way out, I called a friend to see if she was free for lunch. She wasn't, but we chatted for a few minutes. I thought about reaching into my bag for Henry's hat, but the subway was right outside the door to Centro Raccontami, it wasn't that cold and were only going to be five minutes. (I can't believe I am justifying myself.)

My friend was updating me on some health issues when I saw a man, maybe 60 years old, walking toward me and gesturing with a serious look on his face.

I narrowed my eyes in the universal silent communication of "What?" Was there a Tyrannosaurus behind me getting ready to chomp my head off? Why else would you be interrupting my phone call, complete stranger?

"Hat," he said, gesturing again, a bit more frantically. "Put a hat on the baby, it's cold out."

I. Almost. Lost. My. Mind.

"Really?" I said, turning to follow him down the street, like the hot-headed lunatic that I am. "Really? Is it cold out? I couldn't tell. Do you think I should put a hat on him? I wasn't sure. Thanks for letting me know," I yelled after him as he continued to walk away.

Excuse me, complete stranger, but did you carry this child in your uterus for nine months? No? Is that because he's not yours? Or because you don't even have a fucking uterus? Did you carry his nearly 20 pounds strapped to your chest inside a parka made for the Arctic Circle, for an hour from the ass-end of Brooklyn to the Flatiron District, sweating and late and trying not to trip down the subway stairs and kill yourself and him?

Did you?

DID? YOU?

Are you me?

ARE? YOU?

No?

Then, for the love of all that is holy, MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.

What is it with people?

___________

I had to ditch my terrible commenting system, but I didn't want to lose the comments, so here they are:

Deb is a freelance writer and mom. She lives in New York with her husband, toddler son and a sweet but neurotic corgi. She blogs regularly at Urban Moo Cow, a place for thoughtful analysis of modern parenting ~ with a side of humor.

Deb is a freelance writer and mom. She lives in New York with her husband, toddler son and a sweet but neurotic corgi. She blogs regularly at Urban Moo Cow, a place for thoughtful analysis of modern parenting ~ with a side of humor.

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

So far, I've cut out two of four nursing sessions, replacing them each with 5-6 oz. of whole milk per my new pediatrician's instructions after seeing that Henry was below the third percentile in weight. ("But I swear I feed him! He's just had a stomach virus for a week!" Bad. Mom. Award.)

It's not that he won't take the cow's milk. It's just that he clearly would rather be gnawing on my boob. As a result, he becomes distracted and flails around, sending milk everywhere.

It's like I need a body condom just to feed him. (I think those are called raincoats, but let's not mince words.)

Also, he hasn't quite grasped the physics of the bottle yet, since he's had so little practice. He can hold it, but he doesn't tip it back. So he sucks on it and doesn't get anything.

I mean, he can get milk from the Moo Cow in any position, right? What's the deal?

Then he decides he might as well chew on the nipple, so I pull it out of his mouth and he goes ballistic. Flailing, head butting, milk everywhere, body condom. Et cetera.

Do I have to explain this to you again?
Gimme the goods, Moo Cow.

We usually finish the bottle, although not always. But it takes for-ever. Rayne's tried to throw in the towel after two or three ounces while on bottle duty, but I force him back into the baby cave nursery to finish. No rest for the weary.

Then there's that whole psychological bullshit that my supply is going down, and if I had to feed him exclusively I couldn't, not that I would want or need to feed him exclusively since we live in New York in the 21st century, but the point is I am shutting a door and I don't like shutting doors, it makes me feel anxious and write run-on sentences.

Sigh.

Someday this will get easier, right? And we'll look back on it and laugh?

___________

I had to ditch my terrible commenting system, but I didn't want to lose the comments, so here they are:

Deb is a freelance writer and mom. She lives in New York with her husband, toddler son and a sweet but neurotic corgi. She blogs regularly at Urban Moo Cow, a place for thoughtful analysis of modern parenting ~ with a side of humor.

The last time I went skiing was in Park City, Utah during the Sundance Film Festival (amazing, btw, you must go) two months before I got pregnant with Henry. It was my first time skiing out west, and I readily admit its superiority. Whereas in the east you are lucky to skid down a layer of ice, in the west carving fresh powder is a quotidian fact of life.

After skiing all week on perfect powder, I was feeling kind of cocky. I sped happily down an "easy" Green trail with a big dose of hubris coursing through my veins.

You all read King Lear in high school, right? What happens to be people with hubris? They FALL.

I was actually on the flat end of the trail when it happened. It was around 3:30 pm, and the temperature had begun to drop. A day of people skiing straight down the end of that easy hill had created slick ridges. My ski must have caught the edge of one because the next thing I knew, I was tumbling head over heels.

The offending ski popped off right away. On the first tumble, I hit my head and remember thinking, "Thank goodness I'm wearing a helmet."

I had that thought about three more times as I continued to somersault, bouncing each time on my noggin -- kind of like a gymnast, except not at all -- before skidding to a stop around 100 yards from where the first ski had abandoned ship. Every piece of equipment -- skis, poles, goggles, gloves -- was strewn about the slope.

Yard Sale!

Amazingly, my body was intact, which is more than I can say for my pride.

And so it is with parenting. Some days you are acutely aware that you are snow plowing down a Double Black Diamond trail, headed toward a fork whose options include "moguls" or "straight off a cliff." Other days you speed -- cocksure and oblivious -- down a sloping Green trail until you suddenly tumble head-first onto the craggy rocks of reality.

It's humbling, I'll say that much.

With parenting, though, as with little else, there is no choice but to pick up your poles and goggles and keep going. That singular distinction continues to awe me every day of little Henry's life.

___________

I had to ditch my terrible commenting system, but I didn't want to lose the comments, so here they are:

Deb is a freelance writer and mom. She lives in New York with her husband, toddler son and a sweet but neurotic corgi. She blogs regularly at Urban Moo Cow, a place for thoughtful analysis of modern parenting ~ with a side of humor.

Thursday, January 3, 2013

[Ed. note: This post is by Hudson, my neurotic Corgi. The Bloomberg Terminal is a computer system used by finance professionals. Its Help Desk (which can be activated by selecting "Help" twice on the terminal's keyboard) has become singularly unhelpful when troubleshooting. The post is best read in the voice of Dug the Dog from the 2009 animated motion picture Up. Here, watch this short YouTube clip that introduces Dug. I'll wait.

Okay, done? Good. Here we go.]

Dear Bloomberg Help Desk,

Help. Help. Over the past year, I have tried all your suggestions for getting rid of a baby:

Refusing to look at the baby

Asking Mom to send the baby back (with my eyes)

Eating the baby's spoon

Eating the baby's toys

Eating the baby's food (seems to be the only perk)

Moping

Trying to leave him with the other cousins

Barking and growling at the baby

(NB: REALLY BAD ADVICE! Take that off your list, Bloomberg Help Desk. It is not help-ful.)

None of these strategies has succeeded. Bloomberg Help Desk, I am despratedesperitedespearate losing my puppy mind. Just look at what I have to put up with:

High-pitched screams

Baby in my face night and day

Being a prop for blog photos

The baby's scary walking contraption

Hudsy Jail

Tired Mom who doesn't want to play with me anymore :(

I have heard talk of endless fetch when the baby is older. But since my attention span is only 45 seconds long, it is hard for me to hope that far in the future.

Please advise (again) on how to get rid of a baby.

Sincerely,

Hudson CG

PS - Tonight the baby alternated between banging her phone and poking her belly button. I would never get away with that.

PPS - Not neurotic. Why does she always say that?

[Ed. note: Yes, he is.]

___________

I had to ditch my terrible commenting system, but I didn't want to lose the comments, so here they are:

Deb is a freelance writer and mom. She lives in New York with her husband, toddler son and a sweet but neurotic corgi. She blogs regularly at Urban Moo Cow, a place for thoughtful analysis of modern parenting ~ with a side of humor.

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About Me

I’m Deb. I live in New York with my husband and our son, daughter and neurotic corgi. Once, in the sleepless days of my son's first weeks, I caught my husband beaming at us nursing. You are a very good Moo Cow, he said, kissing me on the head. A nickname was thus born. Urban Moo Cow offers thoughtful analysis of modern parenting ~ with a side of humor. Thanks for stopping by! (Photo credit: Sarah Brooks)